Born William Kassner and raised in eastern States of the Coalition in a military family, Bill never dreamt he would become an astronaut. Neither did his childhood friends or fellow Air Force pilots, for that matter. Of all the people in the States or even pilots in the Air Force, however, the program selected him. He trained with about a dozen other astronaut candidates, practicing EVA in underwater simulations and enduring the human centrifuge that just left its brief testing phase. And here he was, months later: floating in a tin can four kilometers above Akheron. And here he would stay for the foreseeable future, travelling at six hundred meters per second relative to the moon's surface.

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"[i]Gödel[/i] is beginning approach. Got those numbers for me? Over."

"Roger that, [i]Gödel[/i]. Control estimates your periapsis to be three point two kilometers, estimated velocity of seven hundred meters per second.. Do you copy? Over."

"Copy. Sounds like I'll be coming in close and fast. Maybe I'll be able to see the moon-folk wavin'. Over and out."

The moon drew closer, growing to fill the lander's viewport. Bill glanced between his instruments and the viewport, watching as craters and ridges flew by at almost a kilometer per second. For the most part, it seemed, there would be no particular issues with landing. While slopes were common, many of them appeared to be shallow rises, none too difficult to keep the lander safely balanced on. The [i]Gödel[/i] continued hurtling over Akheron's surface a little longer.

"This is [i]Gödel[/i] to Control. I'm prepared to make the stabilizing burn. Over."

"Copy that, [i]Gödel[/i]. Proceed. Over."

His gloved hand on the throttle, Bill glanced once more through the lunar viewport. Turning his eyes back towards his instruments, he gently pushed the throttle for all four engines. Bill felt the craft pushing forward as it belched fire in its wake. He continued throttling upward, willing the [i]Gödel[/i] into a higher orbit as the ground raced by just a few kilometers below. The burn was almost perfect. 

No one was prepared for three of the four lander engines malfunctioning in sequence, least of the lander's pilot.

"Fuck."

The unbalanced thrust threw Bill and the module into a sickening tumble, and it took all Bill could to do not throw up in his helmet and to yank the throttle down completely. The tumbling continued, but its intensity did not increase. It took just another moment for Bill to activate the stabilizing reaction wheels, but they proved not to be enough, almost worsened the tumble in certain directions. The astronaut closed his eyes and held his breath.

Three seconds can be the life or death of a pilot or astronaut in a combat situation or when they're hurtling at a low altitude over the surface of a natural satellite at nearly a kilometer a second during a maneuver. But Bill took those three seconds.

Tapping the controls quickly, the astronaut activated the module's stabilizing reaction wheels. They began their work of slowly easing the tumbling, but he knew it wouldn't be fast enough. Through the capsule window, Bill watched as the view alternated between black and grey, his hands slowly moving into place over the controls. 

"[i]Gödel[/i], do you copy? Over."

"Just a minute."

Bill pulsed the RCS thrusters, timing it with the shift between grey and black, killing the tumble on one axis. Taking a few moments to familiarize himself with the new rhythm, he repeated the process, completely terminating the tumble in a minute. The lander's viewport settled on the horizon, facing prograde. 

"All right. Okay." Bill sighed in relief. "Control, this is the [i]Gödel[/i]. I've lost three of my engines. No other immediately apparent issues, but my orbit is likely off. I entered a tumble when the engines blew out. Over."

"Roger that. Can you proceed with the mission? Over."

"Negative. The thrust isn't balanced. No way in hell I'm landing this thing or coming back home on my own. Over."

"How much oxygen do you have left? Over."

Bill froze, remembering. The mission was never meant to be long term, with his suit's current tank only supposed to last eight hours, and the spare attached to his seat lasting another eight, in case of complications. He undid the seat buckles and half-stood, reaching into the overhead compartment. A larger tank of oxygen sat just inside the compartment, strapped down, along with a couple more eight hour spares. The engineers complained about the waste of mass allowance, saying there wouldn't be a situation where that much extra oxygen was needed and the craft wouldn't be destroyed, crew included. Bill silently thanked the bureaucrats for denying their appeals to remove the tanks.

"I think forty eight hours. Maybe more. Not much, either way. Over."

"Roger that. Control is preparing a rescue team as we speak. Over and out."

The astronaut closed the compartment and buckled back in. He glanced at his oxygen meter and exhaled slowly. Not long before it was time to switch tanks.